


a story untold

by LtLeah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Female Protagonist, Gen, Magical Realism, Spies & Secret Agents, Suspense, technically antihero but it's whatevs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtLeah/pseuds/LtLeah
Summary: “Welcome to McDonald’s! May I take your order, ma’am? Or do you need a minute?” This customer service rep (or, as the kids these days are calling them, cashier), whose name tag reads “Alex,” is way too enthusiastic for someone his age working in the food industry. It’s nearing midnight, the kid is skinny as a rail and looks barely 16, but he’s got an ear-to-ear grin.It all starts like this: I'm at a McDonald's at ass-o'-clock at night because insomnia hates. Then the secret agent walks in.(mature for language)





	a story untold

**Author's Note:**

> This is the test (and probably first) chapter of a book I've been working on for the better part of a year. Any and all feedback is very much appreciated.
> 
> I just need to know: does it grab your attention? Does it keep your attention? Are descriptions in any way confusing? Would you read it if it were an actual book?
> 
> title isn't really related to the story at all except for a reference for how long this story has been in my head and not on paper.
> 
> also cross-posted on fictionpress.com

  _ **Miami, Florida**_

_**May 9, 1994** _

 

           “ _Wel_ come to McDonald’s! May I take your order, ma’am? Or do you need a minute?” This customer service rep (or, as the kids these days are calling them, _cashier_ ), whose name tag reads “Alex,” is way too enthusiastic for someone his age working in the food industry. It’s nearing midnight, the kid is skinny as a rail and looks barely 16, but he’s got an ear-to-ear grin.

            I’m immediately suspicious. “10-piece nuggets…please,” I say, the ‘please’ coming out in wary tone.

            “ _Sure thing_ , right away. Will you be making it a combo meal? A nice icy cold soda and hot, steaming fries are a part of the deal!” He’s still smiling, still looking wide awake.

            I blink, trying not to appear fazed by his enthusiasm. I’m too tired for this. “Uh, sure?” I watch as he rings up my order; every few keystrokes he’ll over dramatically tap the keys on the keyboard like he’s freaking Dracula playing Toccata in D minor on the organ. “Excuse me, _Alex_ …”

            “ _Is_ there anything else I can help you with, ma’am?” He looks up, eyes so bright and alive.

            “Are you always this happy?” I ask, even though I really don’t want to know. What I really want to know is why, whenever he starts speaking, the first word or two is always enunciated. It's getting annoying.

            “ _In_ deed, I am! I’ve been complimented _many_ times for my positive attitude,” he answers. Thanks, Alex. He pushes thick-rimmed glasses further up his nose. “ _Al_ right, that’ll be four dollars and forty-seven cents.”

            After paying for my food (“ _Would_ you like your receipt, ma’am?”), I find a corner booth and sit with my back to the wall. That’s how I don’t miss the suit enter the restaurant (“ _Wel_ come to McDonald’s!”) and make a beeline straight for me.

            I tense up, ready to run or fight. I’ve been approached by men like him before, and situations like this either end with a fight to the death, or me running for my life; there is no in-between. I feel sorry for Alex. He shouldn’t have to see this at so young an age.

            Then again, at my age, pretty much everyone is too young in my eyes.

            I let the suit approach my table and sit down across from me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just adjusts himself so his arms are on the table in front of him and his hands are folded. He’s got the cliché brown hair/brown eye look that most secret agents in the movies have. I hate that look. To add insult to injury, the brown eyes are beady and calculating, and his nose looks like it’s been broken one too many times. Definitely cliché.

            I wonder if he’s FBI, or CIA. Maybe other countries have gotten ballsy and have sent one of their “best” after me. To this day, I still expect Sean Connery to show up and go all-out James Bond on me.

            An American accent slithers from his mouth: “Ms. Conroy.” He says the name very blandly, with the corner of his mouth forming a tiny smirk.

            _Oh_ , _great_ , I think as I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It’s one of these types. The cocky ones that think knowing that my alias is an alias is the pivotal part of trapping me. Of course, these types are also more trigger happy. He’s probably itching to go for his gun right now.

            I cross my arms and lean back; him thinking I’m relaxed in this situation is important. If he thinks I’m relaxed, he’ll let his guard down and underestimate me. And if he underestimates me…

            “It’s an honor to finally meet you in person. Your reputation…” he eyes me up and down, probably taking in my fashion choices as well as my posture, “precedes you.”

            “Does it?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. I know I probably look like I’m going through a grunge phase like most of the teens in this decade are; the plaid is most likely not helping. Hopefully he falls for my relaxed position. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr.…?”

            The agent smiles thinly; it looks more like he’s stretching his lips out than smiling. “You may call me Smith.”

            “Fine. Then you can call me Evangeline.” It’s a fake first name to go with the fake last name. My real name hasn’t been on record for decades.

            Smith and I enter some sort of staring contest; I’ve never really understood this type of moment except that it’s some sort of dominance thing. Whoever looks away first is the “lesser man,” or whatever.

            Smith looks away first.

            _Yeah, that’s what I thought_ , I think, _…Wuss_.

            “Evangeline,” he says, before returning his gaze towards me. His eyes are so beady he reminds me of a rat, or maybe a mouse. Some kind of gross rodent. “I represent one of the top agencies in the world.”

            “Ooh, is it IMF this time?”

            Smith doesn’t appreciate my joke. “My organization has been watching you for some months –” surprise, surprise “– and have decided to offer you recruitment.”

            Oh, really? Is this a bluff, or is Smith actually serious?

            “If you’ve heard of me, Smith, then you’ll know that I won’t simply believe just word of mouth,” I tell him. I’ll need more than just _his_ word that some top-secret organization wants to recruit me, because that has never once been the case. This situation was sketchy right from the start, and it could be about to get worse.

            Smith nods, once, as if he was expecting this. “My superior was sure you would say that.” He reaches inside his suit coat and pulls out an unaddressed, unsealed envelope. He holds it up to eye level. “No bombs, no traps,” he says, as if that would make me feel better. It doesn’t.

            I slowly reach out and take the envelope from his grasp. I catch a glimpse of the front counter of the restaurant behind Smith, and Alex is standing behind it not-so-subtly watching the exchange; he looks away as soon as he realizes that I notice him.

            I turn my full attention back onto Smith. I’ll worry about Alex if the agent does anything that threatens his safety. For now, I’ll worry about me.

            “I assure you, it’s safe,” Smith says.

            Is it, though? The envelope and its contents are safe, of this I’m 90% sure. However, that remaining 10% can’t go unaccounted for. Therefore, I have to test for any possible traps. They don’t want my fingerprints, or any kind of DNA. It’s useless to them, because they won’t find matches in any system. No, they want something entirely different.

            They won’t get it.

            So, I’m forced to check the envelope the normal way. Holding it up to the light reveals nothing but a piece of paper tucked inside. It also smells of normal paper (other than a hint of lemon…perfume, maybe?); no hint of chemical residue. And, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing...sinister hiding in there, waiting to jump out. I am now 98% sure that this is a normal envelope holding a normal piece of paper. There’s still the outlying 2%, but it’ll have to do.

            I take the paper out (it’s folded) and let the envelope flutter to the table.

            “Excuse me, ma’am?” I jump at the voice, looking up and behind Smith. Alex is standing behind the counter with a tray of neatly packaged food in front of him. “Your order is ready.” Strange; he isn’t enunciating his syllables.

            I look back at Smith. “Do you mind?” I ask, my voice taking on a slightly sarcastic drawl.

            “Please.” Smith’s mouth forms that thin not-a-smile again. “Take your time.”

            He seems very unconcerned, and that bothers me. Are there more men than just him? What’s going on?

            Making sure to keep my face neutral, I get up from the booth and, not sure what to do with it, slip the paper in my back pocket. The silence in the time it takes for me to get from the booth to the front counter is suffocating; it’s awkward and tense. It seems to take minutes longer than the actual five seconds to get there.

            Alex opens his mouth to say something – probably to announce what my order is, or something equally stupid – but I shush him.

            “Are you the only employee here?” I whisper.

            The boy’s mouth snaps closed with an audible click. “Yep, it’s just me. I’m supposed to close tonight.” His voice is equally soft.

            I hiss out a curse; this is both great and terrible at the same time.

            “Is…something wrong?” He looks wary, but unconcerned. This is Miami; he’s probably seen weirder things than two strangers silently facing off in a corner booth.

            I shake my head; I don’t know if something’s wrong _yet_ , but... “Start closing _now_.” And, without further explanation, I loudly say “Thank you!” and take my tray of food. I fill the empty cup with Sprite before returning to the table.

            Smith hasn’t moved. I put the tray on the table, remove the paper from my pocket, and retake the seat across from the agent.

            “May I?” Smith asks, but he’s already got his grubby fingers on a couple of the fries.

            “Yes, please, help yourself,” I drone out.

            Smith just chews the fries in silence, swallows silently. Finally, he says, “Evangeline. The contents of that letter are proof from my superior that our motive is in no way malicious.”

            He says that, and yet there’s this look in his eye. It’s the “I know more than you do” look. It’s not something I see very often in honest people.

            I don’t like this. This is the part where I should just get up and leave and forget the entire thing happened. I should have left the moment Smith opened his smarmy mouth.

            But I can’t now. I can’t because I need to know how this organization has been tailing me. I’ve been careful – _so careful_ – for years, now, that I thought I’m finally in the clear. _How_ did they find me in the first place, and how long have they been following me? How have I not noticed them? I should have known better. In fact, I _do_ know better.

            And then there’s Alex: the poor, innocent kid who works late shifts at a McDonald’s. The McDonald’s I chose to walk into. If I left now, they might kill him just for seeing Smith and me together. Then again, they might kill him no matter what I do.

            So, I unfold the paper and settle in to read.

            What I expected to be a long, wordy essay of advertising and reasoning is something of the complete opposite. It’s handwritten, the scrawl messy and thin.

 

_Evangeline Conroy,_

_This is not your real name. The real message is hidden and can be revealed with your word._

_Mr. Chairman_

 

            “‘The real message is hidden and can be revealed with your word,’” Smith parrots, and, dammit, I’d suspected he’s read it since first seeing the envelope. That _smug prick_. “Odd words for a terrible attempt at code-wording. I have no idea what ‘and can be revealed with your word’ means, but I attempted the old ‘heat with lemon juice’ trick. All that accomplished was almost singeing the paper.”

            That explains the lemon, at least.

            ‘The real message is hidden and can be revealed with your word.’ Mr. Chairman, whoever he is, wrote this with the knowledge of what I’m capable of. If he knows what I’m capable of, and if he knows who I am, then why bother with the pretense of sending an agent in to collect me?

            Something’s wrong. Either this is a vague recruitment test, or they’re not as friendly as they’re trying to appear to be. I’m leaning more towards the latter.

            I don’t want this to turn into a fight. Every time special agencies approach me, someone ends up dead or I have to go back into hiding. I’m really, _really_ hoping this is a recruitment test.

            It can be revealed with my word…

            I have to do it. I’ve been backed into a corner of uncertainty and deception. If I don’t do as the letter says, this night will not end how I want it to. Then again, if I _do_ go ahead and follow the letter’s order, this just may end badly, regardless of my decisions.

            Fine. I’ll do it, but I’m not going to be happy about it.

            I wish, not for the first time, I’m able to do this nonverbally. “ _Ætíewan_.” It’s almost as if the word is breathed onto the letter. The ink changes shape, moving in great globs across the paper. The handwriting changes, becomes calligraphic and loopy. When the ink finishes its journey, setting down once again, only two words glare up at me:

 

**_Got you._ **

 

            That...that handwriting… My heart skips a beat.

            _No_. Oh, no.

            I look up, and there is Smith, looking cool and confident with a smirk on his face. “My superior was confident you would cooperate without force.”

            Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t start unnecessary fights. “I won’t go willingly. This… _Mr. Chairman_ should have known that, if there were ever the case that I knew the truth of what I would be going into, that it would be impossible for me to cooperate.”

            “I think you will,” Smith replies.

            There’s a panicked shout from the back, and _oh, no, Alex_. Looking up, there’s a black guy, another agent – he must have come in from the back – dragging the teenager by the arm, a gun to Alex’s head. The kid looks terrified and isn’t even struggling. Such a far cry from that obnoxiously cheerful kid I met just 15 minutes earlier.

            “Don’t,” I warn, my voice quiet and even. “You don’t want to do this.”

            But Smith looks absolutely gleeful. “Yes, I do. Come with us quietly, and I won’t have Jones kill the boy.”

            Well, damn.

            He’s lying, obviously. Even if I do go with them, Smith will have Alex killed just for being a witness. _Crap_. I can’t let that happen. Smith is across the table from me. To the right, Jones is holding Alex about three feet behind Smith.

            I could…Well, my plan is ballsy, but at least it’s a plan.

            “Smith.” He needs to think he has my full attention. “You’ve cornered me. Congratulations, you’re the first agent to have done so.”

            Good grief, the guy’s chest actually puffs up with self-pride. “Evangeline, I’m pleased you’ve decided –”

            “ _But_ ,” I cut him off. “I’m afraid I can’t go with you.”

            I get out of the booth, spurring the two agents into action. Smith draws his gun, points it at me. Jones shakes Alex and presses the muzzle of his gun more firmly into the boy’s temple. The poor kid is wide-eyed, his whole body tense. Slowly, I raise my hands in fake surrender. The idea is to get both myself and Alex out alive. I’m going to have to do this quickly, no hesitation.

I launch myself at Alex, catching him around the waist in an American football tackle. Smith shoots his gun as Jones goes down with me and Alex, his gun going off right next to my ear. Pushing through the disorientation of sudden hearing loss, and still holding onto Alex, I roll us off of and away from Jones.

            “ _Bordrand_!” Just in time, a transparent dome surrounds me and Alex as the agents open fire on us. None of the bullets penetrate the barrier.

            “What…what the hell…” Alex mumbles, probably dumbfounded by the sight. He looks at me, and I can see fear in his eyes. Oh, no. Is he afraid of me? Shit, this really isn't my night. “Can you do anything else besides this?”

            I’m taken aback by his words, but there’s no time to reply. The agents have stopped firing and are now just staring down at us, no doubt trying to figure out how to breach the shield.

            “Do you trust me?” I ask.

            “…Yeah,” Alex says, keeping a wary gaze on the agents.

            “Don’t move, don’t make a sound,” I whisper, before, louder, saying, “See ya, boys! _Bemíðan_!” The shield drops. The agents react instantly.

            “Shit!” Smith shouts, frustration seething out of him. He’s throwing his arms down and around. “Damn it!”

            Jones, however, is the complete opposite. He’s pacing quietly, gun down at his side. “What are we gonna tell the boss?”

            Smith is breathing heavily through his nose, making a noticeable effort to keep his arms at his side, and staring down at our spot. He looks up and around at the restaurant, slowly turning in a semi-circle, before briefly glancing down at where Alex and I lay. Gritting his teeth, Smith glares at Jones and says, “We will tell him she escaped due to our underestimation of her.”

            “The truth?” Jones gapes, incredulous. “I dunno, man, maybe we should –”

            “If we lie, our superior will do worse to us than what he will do if we tell him the truth.” Jones blanches, and Smith scoffs. “Let’s go,” Smith continues. “She and that boy are, in all likelihood, miles away by now. It’s best we leave before this turns into an even worse shit-show than it already is.”

            He starts heading out of the building without another word. Jones glances down to where Alex and I are before following his partner out.

            The silence left behind by them is deafening, broken only by mine and Alex’s breathing. I wait until I hear the slamming of doors, followed by a vehicle being started and driven away.

            Still concentrating on keeping the illusion, I slowly stand up. A quick look around determines that both Smith and Jones are long gone. Whether or not there are more agents, I don't know, but it can be assumed that the coast is clear. I drop the illusion.

            “ _That_ …was incredible,” Alex squeaks from the floor. I look down to see him spread eagle on his back, staring dazedly at the ceiling. “Well, I mean, besides getting shot at – _by real agents with real guns_ – but that…I dunno what you call it… _magic_ …”

            “This isn’t a game,” I tell him sternly. “Those real agents with real guns?” His eyes snap to meet mine, and I can tell I’m already raining on his parade. Good; he shouldn’t be so naïve. “They came with _very real bullets_ , kid. If either of those guys could aim decently –”

            “But they didn’t,” Alex says as he gets up off the floor. “I had you and your…” He shrugs. “I’m Alex, by the way,” he says, putting a hand out. “Alex Mulligan.”

            It’s probably rude, but I don’t shake his hand. I’m not too keen on sharing my real name, haven’t been for a long time (too long), so I give him the one on my credit card.

            I expect him to just accept it, maybe with a “your parents must have had a sense of humor” comment, but Alex just laughs, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and says, “If _secret agents_ didn’t know your real name, I doubt Nancy Drew is it, either.”

            That startles a laugh out of me; he’s got me there. I stare down at my feet for a contemplative second before looking back up at Alex. “Olivia,” I say, feeling the corner of my mouth tug into a small smile. “My real name’s Olivia.”

            “Nice to meet you, Olivia,” Alex says.

            Nice to meet you, too, Alex.


End file.
